Somewhere in the snow. Drowned in the fog. Surrounded by trees all over, deep in the forest, obscured from daylight.
In contemplation...

Monday, November 20, 2006

Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog

Bread by both beauty and fear alike he carries the remnants of power and mightwhere rocks hold the symbolic weight he possessesbut how solid they are? for they erode without sympathy

He looks down and stares deeply into the fog he looks all over and sees a sea of cavernous fogmountain tops bulge shyly and with warning of no meanslife takes a photo of you confronting the sea of fog and dips it in the shallow waters where shipwrecks and lost souls embrace it with creamy, cramped eyes of subliminal wonderings and goals

Wonderer, a flat surface tells a lot because of your heart that all else revolves around all converges, meets at the seminal symphony that is the art that emanates freely from your heart

Wonderer, you reason with vastnessalone all in all alone but at fault you aresince vastness is what delivers reason

Up is down and Down is up for you for your ways in the world are all the true colour and lightwith fleeting glimpse of unknown peaks of unmatched heightOr am I now at fault with a word such as ‘unmatched’?

All in all I wrote this poemso the fault is truly minemy value , my troublethe fear and the beauty and the fear of beauty

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About Me

‘What can I say? I’ve known him for one and a half years: he’s a morose sort of chap – gloomy, stand-offish and proud; recently (and for all I know not so recently, as well) he’s been over anxious, with a tendency to hypochondria. But sometimes it’s not hypochondria at all that he’s suffering from, he’s simply cold and unfeeling to the point of inhumanity, it’s really just as though there were two opposites alternating within him. He is sometimes unconscionably short on conversation! It’s all: “I’ve no time, stop bothering me”, yet he just lies there not doing anything. He doesn’t mock, yet it’s not because he doesn’t have enough wit, but rather as though he didn’t have enough time for such trivial matters. He doesn’t listen to what people say to say to him. He’s never interested in what everyone else is interested in at any given moment. He has fearfully high opinion of himself, and perhaps not entirely without justification.
Well, what else?...I think your arrival will have a most salutary effect on him.’
Fyodor Dostoevsky